Emmeline and Ruth were bent close together, giggling softly when I entered the scullery, my arms laden with kindling for the fire. I dumped it beside the hearth, startling them so their heads snapped up, eyes wide with surprise.

“What are you doing?” I asked, angling to see what they were hiding behind their backs.

The mangy gray cat that had hugged Emmeline’s heels since we’d arrived here weaved around her back, peering out from under her arm at me. “That’s none of your concern,” Emmeline teased, jutting her chin high and looking down her nose at me with an air of authority, even though I was the one who was standing up. Being six months my elder, she had already turned twelve, and lately she refused to let me forget it. “It’s a secret,” she said, winking at Ruth. I made a fast reach behind Emmeline’s shoulder, startling the cat and snatching the small wooden figure from her hands. Em swatted and grabbed as I held it away from her, examining it over her head while she took only half-serious swings at me. It was a carving, a small doll with a sullen face and high cheekbones and a narrow chin that looked uncomfortably familiar. I turned it over in my hand. There were small puncture holes in the doll’s back. “It looks like Missus Slaughter,” I said, narrowing my eyes at them both. “What are you playing at?”

They fell upon each other in a fit of giggles, and the cat darted out the door.

“What’s going on in here?” a stern voice called from the pathway to the scullery. Emmeline and Ruth scrambled to their feet. In a panic, I tossed the doll into the fire, not a second before Elizabeth Slaughter darkened the door of the room. Ruth covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her other hand searched blindly for Emmeline’s, their fingers barely touching behind their skirts.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Ruth whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

I turned to face Mrs. Slaughter, brushing my hands together. “I was just delivering the wood, ma’am.”

She pushed me aside, her gaze hard on Emmeline and Ruth. “I asked you a question,” she snapped at them.

“We’ve just finished the washing, ma’am,” Emmeline said, a hint of bitterness on her tongue. Mrs. Slaughter surveyed the work, and finding nothing to criticize, she said, “Then go tend to the master’s study.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emmeline started for the door.

“No,” Mrs. Slaughter said, with a sharp and pointed look that froze Emmeline where she stood. “Ruth will do it. You will stay here and work on the mending. When you’re finished with that, you can feed the hounds.” Mrs. Slaughter turned and paused at the door. “But not too much, mind you. My husband plans to hunt this afternoon.”

Ruth squeezed Emmeline’s hand behind her skirt, then hurried off to the study. Mrs. Slaughter braced herself in the doorway, one hand on the wooden frame and one hand clutching her lower back, as if she had a crick in it. Emmeline’s shrewd gray eyes fixed on her. A bead of sweat slid down Mrs. Slaughter’s face.

“You, boy,” she said without looking at me. “Come and walk me to the house. I’m unwell.”

I took Mrs. Slaughter’s arm and walked her slowly through the door, risking a glance backward at Emmeline. She had turned to the fire, reaching desperately for the hearth tools. I prayed she would use the tongs to fish the doll from the flames. Instead, she took up the bellows and began fanning them.